


Oh Me, Oh My

by kam



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Catlock, M/M, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 07:57:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kam/pseuds/kam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ShootBadCabbies drew cat!lock, and i was like, oh. cat!lock. ok. i can do that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh Me, Oh My

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sherlock goes into heat for the first time](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/34944) by ShootBadCabbies. 



John smells _amazing_. John always smells good, certainly, but today, he smells amazing. Today, he smells _edible_ , and Sherlock desperately wants to find out if he is. Actually, there are quite a few things Sherlock desperately wants. First on the list is to dispose of some of his clothes – he doesn’t like wearing them in the first place, but today the flat is really just _unbearably_ hot, and his trousers are too tight, they are crushing his tail, and they have got to go. Once that’s taken care of, he begins fiddling with his buttons, but he stops when he hears John flop down on the sofa, remembering how _good_ John smells today and the various things he wants – taking his shirt off is now at the bottom of this list. John is at the top.

 

Sherlock pads into the main room, grooming his ears absentmindedly as he goes. John is lying across the sofa, watching something insipid on the telly. Sherlock is torn between the desire to crawl all over John, rub his face across his skin, possibly do other, less understandable things, and the desire to remain hidden and observe John, to drink in the way he stretches, the tilt of his head as he rests his cheek on his hand. He settles for peeking over the top of the sofa, looking down at John, who lies there, completely oblivious.

 

This seems to be a good compromise, until John yawns and stretches, exposing the line of his neck, and Sherlock begins to purr. He crouches and scampers from the room, perching on the worktop in the kitchen and scowling. He isn’t sure _why_ he’s purring, and he doesn’t _like_ not knowing things, which is probably why his stomach feels so odd, because he is irritated, it almost certainly has _nothing_ to do with John’s skin or the incredible scent that is rolling off him in _waves_ , permeating the entire flat, and Sherlock’s mouth is dry and his stomach feels strange and he just wants John.

 

Sherlock creeps back into the main room, taking a second to calculate angles before surging over the arm of the sofa and pouncing on John. He’s purring louder now as John rolls onto his back instinctively, arms coming up defensively as Sherlock slides his hands under John’s hideous hoodie. The thing is honestly so offensive that Sherlock decides it must be done away with, posthaste.

“Sherlock, what are you… Oi, stop it!”

Sherlock does not stop it, wrestling John’s hoodie away from him, pressing his face into the golden skin he’s revealed.

“Sherlock you can’t just… What are you doing?”

“I don’t _know_ , stop wiggling.”

“I’m not _wiggling_ , Sherlock, that’s _you_.”

Sherlock glances down and finds John to be correct – he is lying still and Sherlock is rubbing himself against John’s thigh. That should be embarrassing, why is that not…

“Sherlock you’re burning up. What’s wrong?”

“You smell _amazing_ ,”

he whines, and John rolls his eyes.

“Right, get off of me, Sherlock. You’re ill.”

Sherlock hisses, showing his teeth, and John stares at him, wide-eyed.

“I’m _not_ ill. I just want…”

Sherlock trails off, distracted by the rise and fall of John’s chest, and as easy as that, he’s dragging his tongue from John’s nipple, up, up to his neck, nuzzling into the space behind his ear, and John’s breath catches on Sherlock’s name as he grabs at his waist.

“You can’t _do_ this, Sherlock, you shouldn’t…”

“I’m not _doing_ anything, John.”

This is blatantly not true, Sherlock is lapping at the join of John’s shoulder, nipping occasionally, and still rubbing himself lazily against John’s thigh. John is really at a loss – Sherlock has _never_ acted like this before, and underneath the weight of his concern, there is a definite undercurrent of interest.

“Sherlock, can you just… _Christ_ , Sherlock, don’t bite me, you berk! Can you just… Stop, come here. Stop it!”

John manages to wrestle Sherlock over, pinning him to the sofa by his wrists. Sherlock snarls up at him, though the effect is diminished as he arches his hips up, seeking contact and friction.

“Sherlock. Look at me. Why are you doing this?”

“You smell good,”

Sherlock growls, arching higher and higher until John gives in and shifts, resting his knee between Sherlock’s legs.

“What do you want, Sherlock?”

Sherlock ignores the question, concentrating instead on rolling his hips and the delicious shivers it sends up his spine.

“Sherlock,”

John growls, pressing his leg harder against Sherlock, making him whimper and struggle.

“Answer me,”

he demands, tightening his grip on Sherlock’s wrists and shifting his leg back, framing Sherlock’s hips with his knees.

“I don’t _know_ , John, I don’t _know_ but it’s so hot in here and you smell so good and _please_ , I need you.”

 

John takes a few moments, breathing deeply through his nose, trying to clear his head. Sherlock is… He wants… Well, there’s really no avoiding what he wants at this point, is there? Equally unavoidable is the fact that John wants it, as well. _Also_ unavoidable, though, is the question of where in the hell this is _coming_ from. But there is obviously no way to get that information out of Sherlock, and honestly, he’s not even entirely sure it would really be especially helpful. So.

 

Sherlock is whimpering and struggling again, his hips rolling up uselessly, and John returns his focus to the matter at hand.

“I’m going to move my hands, but don’t you move yours. Understood?”

Sherlock nods, and John sits back, resting on Sherlock’s thighs and releasing his wrists.

“I don’t know _why_ you’re doing this, Sherlock, but you must have a reason, you always do,”

John unbuttons Sherlock’s shirt, and Sherlock surges up to kiss him and let him slide the shirt off his shoulders.

“I want you,”

he repeats, reassures, before laying back, carefully placing his hands back where John had left them, staring up at John with dark, slanted eyes, expectant. John nods, takes another deep breath, and reaches down to open his own trousers. Sherlock whines as he does, the amazing smell growing even stronger, and thrusts his hips up, almost knocking John off.

“Christ, Sherlock, calm down! We’ll get there, alright, I promise. Just let me…”

He scoots back further, straightening his legs so he can slip his trousers and pants off, acutely aware of how _unsexy_ his method of disrobing is, but Sherlock isn’t complaining. Sherlock is making little mewling sounds, pressing his bottom into the sofa to avoid bucking his hips up again, determined to obey John. Finally, _finally_ , John moves back up, nudging Sherlock’s legs open so he can kneel between them.

“Are you…”

Sherlock growls, grabbing John’s hand and bringing it firmly to his pants, which are soaked back to front. John’s eyes go impossibly wide, and he immediately peels the offending garment away.

“Did you… Oh. OH. I didn’t…”

“Please,”

Sherlock whines, wriggling his hips desperately, and John swallows, glancing from Sherlock’s face to his hole, which is currently _dripping_ with clear liquid.

“Christ, Sherlock. _Christ_. Alright. Alright.”

John scoots closer, catching Sherlock’s legs under the knee, pressing them gently up, and Sherlock grabs them impatiently, pulling them tight to his chest.

“And I can just…”

Sherlock growls again, and John retaliates by nudging his knees under Sherlock’s bottom and entering him.

 

Sherlock yowls.

 

“Christ, Sherlock, did I hurt you? Are you alright, I’m so sorry, I…”

“If you don’t fuck me this instant, John, I swear…”

John laughs half-heartedly, tucking Sherlock’s left leg over his shoulder and rubbing his calf affectionately.

“Right. You don’t make this easy.”

“It’s not _meant_ to be easy, it’s meant to be…”

He cuts off as John presses in the rest of the way, stopping only when he’s flush against Sherlock. They’re both breathing heavily, and John leans down, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s forehead.

“Is this ok?”

Sherlock tilts his head back, catching John’s lips with his own, and shifting his hips, drawing a gasp from John.

“Please,”

he whines, again, and John nods, straightening up again and drawing his hips back a bit, experimentally. He takes a deep breath and rolls his hips forward again. Sherlock moans, which John takes as a good sign, and repeats the motion, pulling back a bit farther this time. Sherlock wraps his right leg around John’s waist, urging him on with his heel dug into the small of his back. John swats his thigh, frowning and pushing Sherlock’s leg from his shoulder before grabbing his waist. Sherlock’s eyes fly open as John yanks him up, scowling at him as he lies back, planting his feet on the sofa and releasing Sherlock.

“There, bossy. _You_ be in charge, then.”

Sherlock blinks, processing, then lays his ears back, grinning, and plants his hands on John’s shoulders. He’s never done this before, and it’s obvious John hasn’t either, but Sherlock has the distinct advantage of instinct, and it instructs him in exactly how to roll his hips, how much leverage he needs to lift himself _almost_ all the way off before sinking back down, and soon John’s hands are back at his waist, squeezing hard enough to bruise.

“Christ, Sherlock…”

Sherlock purrs in response, leaning down to nip roughly at John’s ear, making his hips snap up. Sherlock likes that, so he does it again, and soon John is using his grip on Sherlock’s waist to pump his hips up, meeting Sherlock thrust for thrust.

“Sherlock,”

John pants, sweat standing on his skin, and Sherlock leans down to lap at his neck.

“Sherlock, I _can’t_ …”

“Yes,”

Sherlock hisses, and John’s hands tighten further, his hips snap once, twice more, and then he lets out a growl of his own as he holds Sherlock tight to him, shaking his way through his orgasm. Sherlock nuzzles into John’s neck, rubbing himself against John’s stomach until his own orgasm pulses through him. John’s knees give up, and his legs fall against the sofa. Sherlock yawns, shifting about until John slips out of him, then sliding down, settling between John’s legs with his head on John’s chest.

“Pet my ears,”

he yawns, cuddling down into John. John automatically brings one hand up to Sherlock’s ears, rubbing his face with the other. Sherlock begins to purr, and John glances down at him for a moment before looking up at the ceiling. He has _no_ idea how he’s going to explain this to Mycroft when he comes to insist that Sherlock can’t spend the night at John’s flat _again_ , but he has a sneaking suspicion that Sherlock will win that argument this time.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sorry, but at the same time, i'm kind of not sorry.


End file.
